Thoughts On The Brave At Heart
by Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod
Summary: There are all kinds of bravery. No one kind is better than another. But how can you be brave if you don't think you are?


A/N: Here we go: last one. Gryffindor. Haven't read the others? Please do! Oh, and please review. Many thanks and virtual choc chip cookies to sheikgoddess for reviewing all of my HP stuff. You're the best. Ah well... On with the story...

Disclaimer- Should I insult your intelligence? Well, alright- I am not J.K. Rowling, for those of you nutty enough to think I was. Should you even exist.

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_You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart;_

_Their daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart._

It's a poem. A rhyme. A bit of free verse. Whichever name you call it, you cannot escape Gryffindor's first characteristic- bravery. Of whatever sort, whichever degree. There's standing up to Professor Snape- you've got nerve; standing up to Voldemort- I'm seeing unstoppable courage; and then there's standing up to Professor McGonagall (which is just plain foolhardy.)

Speaking as someone who prefers to observe than to actually be part of events, I got a shock when I was put in Gryffindor. Apparently 'Gryffindors find their bravery', and the Sorting Hat decided Gryffindor was the place for me when I snapped at him for saying he might put me in Slytherin, I was such a cold fish.

Well, I've been observing for four years, and here are my results so far-

Oops. Typical. I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I?

Rowena Ashford; fifteen; brown hair; crooked red-rimmed glasses; hazel eyes; Muggleborn- welcome to my world. Ha! Some world. The library consists of my life. Friends? What friends? I'm not brave. Or courageous. I hate heights and I don't like spiders. Brave? Me?

This will have to be quick. There is a noise, just out there, that I must investigate as a prefect, and I have not yet finished my Divination essay, either. Was there ever a more stupid subject? Looking at the future? Who wants to know about the future? It's pointless. Knowing about the future can muck up your life.

Let's play a game. Let's say I am brave and beautiful and perfect and clever! That makes me a Mary-Sue, but whatever. You want to know what a Mary-Sue is now?

Well, in my summer holidays, I go on this site called You won't have heard of it. My penname there is LifeTheUniverse42. Go look for it, some time. A Mary-Sue is what we like to call a perfect character.

Of course, I'm not brave. Madam Pomfrey says that I am, because I'm always getting into trouble and that's why I'm in the hospital wing all the time. Of course, after the original victim bullies turn on the girl in the corner scribbling everything down in a diary, a catalogue of events here at Hogwarts. That's how I got my nose broken. And, in fact, I'm writing this in a diary, along with observations of life. I know where to put it, once I'm done. When OWLs and NEWTs have passed me by, when it's my last day at Hogwarts- I know where I'll put it, for some other kid to find.

Do I have nerve? I don't know. Somehow, I don't think I do. It's just that I'm... mouthy. Yup. Mouthy, that's the word. When confronted by seventh-year Slytherin, what does Rowena Ashford do? Why, Rowena Ashford lets rip. In Spanish.

Well, I am a geek.

Of course, tall-dark-and-dim didn't take my multicultural foul-mouthed-ness kindly. He didn't feel honoured that I'd chosen to educate him in the wonders of the Spanish swearword. In fact, he broke my arm. I was most cross, not because he'd broken it (I was getting kinda used to that kind of thing) but because he'd broken my writing arm. What a thing to think about, through the hazes of pain, the throes of agony, etcetera, etcetera.

That noise has got louder. Just one more paragraph, I think.

Now we come to chivalry. How does one define 'chivalry'? Is it being helpful? Picking people up off the ground? Is it? It's not what I do. I'm mouthy. I can't stop myself interfering, and I write it all down. I observe. I'm making a miniature Hogwarts: A History, although it would be Hogwarts: Seven Years Of Observation, By Rowena Ashford. I get bashed up for no real reason. I break my legs, my arms, my nose, once, a wrist, and why? Because I interfere. Because I get in the way, when it's too hard to sit and watch. Usually because there is no-one else there. That, I think, doesn't make me brave or chivalrous. Just because I'm not nervous. Just because something other than fear drives my blood. Justice? Why would a fifteen-year-old girl, unathletic, not particularly clever, be driven by- justice? Driven, perhaps stupidly,to cause others to hurt her? Isn't justice one of those huge concepts grownups are supposed to be able to distil, while children watch, listen, wait and learn? And who does one learn from? Are there grownups who don't understand the concept of justice?

Of course, you can't answer me. You can't answer any of my questions. Neither can any book that I know of. And certainly not you- diary.

What are they doing out there that is so noisy? Are they setting off fireworks, or something?

So I watch. And I wait, listen, read, learn, think, discover, see, observe, record...

...write...

I will be back shortly. Ha. What is it with people and Quidditch? It drives them to do the funniest things.

The Epilogue to Hogwarts: Four Years of Observation, By Rowena Ashford.

Poster in the Great Hall, 8th July 2006:

All Quidditch matches have been cancelled until further notice.


End file.
